Brego
by ShoutFinder
Summary: Wounded from battle, a Ranger lies beside the river that had borne him away, half-alive; while freed from his owed allegiances, a horse of the Riddermark wanders. Is it chance that they meet again, or does one's benevolent act to the other returned in kind decree their fates be found together?


**A/N: I've been nursing a particularly strong Tolkien mood for some time now. After a sentimental viewing of _The Battle of the Five Armies_, re-watching the _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy, and (the highlight here) a visit to Hobbiton, I finally decided to write something. Originally I was tossing up a novella idea (still am) to my debut appearance into the online Tolkien fandom, but after _The Two Towers_ I knew I had to write about Brego.**

**He was the horse who found Aragorn by the river and bore him safely to Helm's Deep. The scene when he and Aragorn first bonded was, regretfully, reserved for a Director's Cut edition of _The Two Towers_, but ever since he and Aragorn have journeyed together, both in and out of set - after filming, Viggo Mortensen bought Uraeus, who played Brego, of whom he'd built a close bond with.**

**And so, as an earnest Tolkien fan and native to Middle-Earth, I hope I have done justice between the pair. But that's ultimately for you to decide...**

* * *

><p><strong><span>-Brego-<span>**

_In swift tranquility, the river bore its burden. Through twisting spires of cliff and steeping banks it tarried, until at last the current loosened its grip—with but a whisper of effort, as the fringing stones quivered in the thinning water, the man was rested upon the shore._

_He lay quietly, as though having let go of all the world long ago. What movement came of him was not of his awareness, for soon the river ceased to bear him at all, and its current slipped by without him. His sodden clothes were dried, but warmth, as was the world, was forgotten to him._

_It seemed he was never to move again, for no living man could lie so still. Then his eyelids fluttered, and a weary sigh was heard._

...

He remembered the fall long after the darkness had taken him.

It had been a sensation he had never known, with only air beneath and beyond him. Instinct willed wings of which he had not. Never had he felt as helpless as he had in that moment, where he was bound to a fate he had neither sought nor imagined.

There had been ground, and then there'd been nothing but the descent. Both he and the Warg had writhed, urgently seeking separation from the other. Then came the shock of impact, so strong it dazed him, and he feared he was falling still—until his body registered the pressure, the chill and the current that penetrated his raiment. There was no air, and his lungs were screaming for it, for the blow of his meeting the river had dried him of breath.

He felt the beast's unyielding efforts to surface, but its ungainly thrashing could not contest the river's thrust. He knew of what tied them to this nightmarish end, was painfully mindful of the strap of harness caught around his wrist. Yet in this smothering, he could barely think, only _know_, and as stones dragged under him and his very bones became heavy and every sense but touch was rendered blind, he fought against the embrace of his end.

There was a fire in him, one that the water served only to grow. His fury ceased as his muscles burned away, and there came a pounding in his head that swelled with his urgency. His final ambition, however, strived in every bit of his being, and it became him then; something strong and solid met the tips of his fingers, and he did not hesitate to take it up and lash it at his trapped limb. Suddenly his living, dying anchor was gone, and once more he was suspended, but in forceful sweeps it pushed upon him. So great was his agony that he gasped, and water flooded him, and then he was one with it; and upon the truth of this the fire consuming him subsided. He no longer needed to struggle.

So he drifted, to what end he knew not. He had withdrawn into the peace of his soul, lay in shadow, dreamed a slumber of which he could not awaken. And for a time—its length unknown to him—this was how it was. War and suffering he had abandoned, and in this solitude he rested and sought not to disturb. To the world he had surrendered.

Then he knew another sensation, so gentle it puzzled him. It skimmed his lips, and warmth seeded there, and he became aware of the chill under his skin. There seemed a presence above him also, born of a kind he yearned for with his heart. Light chased the dark away, and into the eyes of love he gazed.

_May the grace of the Valar protect you._

A phantom—it could only be, for she was far across the Sea to the land of the undying, with her people—and so it seemed, for she was so pale, and distant. Yet she lived, for her voice whispered in his ears, and as it waned other sounds became known to him; the babble of water leaping stones and the echo of life that faintly persisted. Like wind she vanished, this welcome ghost, and a terrible need of her lingered. He drew a hushed breath to call to her, and a weight in him was lifted. Most unusually, this tired him, so once more he subsided, but it was into a deeper and benign exhaustion, and one that he succumbed to with restful ease.

...

_Hours came and went. The Sun shied behind the rearing cliffs. Zephyrs trod lightly through the grassy plains above. The river wound on and on, and it had all but forgotten the man who slept in perturbing stillness beside it._

_He stirred little and infrequently, but his breaths had grown stronger. Wounds fresh and old wearied him further, exhausting him even as he sought rejuvenation through rest. Raw and red was a graze that had torn into his shoulder, and bruises groused along his spine._

_Perhaps it were these that encouraged the man to unconsciously favour his uninjured arm, for twisted on one side was how a lonesome wanderer found him. The vulnerable sight of him seemed no better time for an owed debt to be repaid._

...

Even in flickering moments of wakefulness, concentration proved arduous. His senses wavered. The river's babbling was a lullaby to his clouded mind, soothing him, for he could barely grasp reality. Somewhere in the depths of his subconscious he knew of an urgency, for the memory of battle was fresh in his mind, and the injuries sustained from it were sharp on his flesh. Everywhere was an ache, but more prominent was fatigue. He could not rise if his life depended on it.

So when he could, he listened, and spread his senses beyond sight to determine whatever environment he'd been brought to.

Many long years he'd lived alone, with naught but the wilderness as treacherous company. His senses became keen, his body quick and attuned with deepest instinct. Nothing escaped his perception, in the tranquility of his own solitude, or the thick of battle. His awareness had kept him alive just as well as his skill in battle.

He had wondered when such a day would come when he would be in such the situation that he was now, deprived of both abilities. He was prepared to acquiesce himself to days of unbroken rest, if it meant that when he woke he would be strong once more, but it was different now. His lonely vigil had ended long ago, from the moment four rain-soaked travellers appeared to him.

Now he was denied the luxury of time to spend as his own. The people he'd ridden with had become his charge and responsibility, and for their sake, he could not fail them.

So it became unquestioned down to the quintessence of his being; he had to rise, and find some way to return, and swiftly, for he tasted danger brooding in the air like a storm. Yet his very bones protested, and his strength was slow to come. The senselessness of sleep rose to reclaim him, and what could he do?

But on the edge of hearing, stones were rattling in the tread of footsteps. A presence fell over him. Too weary, with tendrils of slumber entwining him, he did not respond, for his thoughts were hazing over. Then he felt a nudge that turned him, a soft and fretful nickering that came and distorted as if from a great distance. Such was his fatigue that his mind was slow to process what animal belonged to the sound.

Warm breath misted on his face, and a velvety muzzle brushed the tip of his nose. Puzzled by the gentleness of the act, he peered through his eyelashes, and a most peculiar feeling became him, for he recognized the majestic beast that bowed over him. "Brego," he murmured, mystified. The horse was turned free. His loyalty was no longer owed to men.

The pebbles at his side clattered loudly as the stallion knelt, adjuring him.

He understood what was required of him, and so channelled all thought and energy to an act once mindlessly easy to him. Still he ached with exhaustion, so much that he desperately wanted to embrace peace again, but he knew that now such opulence was beyond him. There was no longer _want_ or _need_, but _must_.

Slowly, his hand felt along the warm flesh of the beast, and his fingers twisted in a tuft of hair. Strength trickled through his veins like a dried stream watered. The moments crept past, and gradually the hold of fatigue lessened to the point when his other hand followed the first. He placed his elbow across the stallion's broad, heated back and rested for a moment, savouring the animal's life beneath him. Its vitality bled into his own. Ribs expanded and contracted in the forceful intake and bellowing of breath. Beneath his cheek, a vast heart thundered with energy.

He concentrated on this to forget the burdens of his body, just enough to lever himself flat across the broad back. He clung hard as it lurched and rocked under him, as Brego climbed to his feet.

And once more, he was suspended, but not falling nor drowning. The sway of motion beneath him restored him energy. His legs slid down, his head went up, though for now all other action was beyond his control. Only instinct kept him upright as the stallion carried him. He listened to the flow of the river subsiding into silence, felt the Sun cast warm shafts upon him, and with heat from above and below, the chill began to wane from his soul.

...

There had been a horse without a rider. Frenzied and afraid of a world suddenly shadowed in doubt and fear, he refused, and violently. All that had once been familiar was not, and such was his terror that he had been deemed beyond help.

Men had been unkind, testing their strength against his. The stallion resisted, straining with all his will against those he now considered his captors. Bloodshed and chaos was what he remembered most, and the horror of his rider falling from the saddle to be cast motionless upon the stained earth. So it was that he refused all other hands, for he sensed death and grief still fresh in their hearts.

He could not take it, and expected beyond the confines of his stall, that was all that awaited him again. Still they dragged at him, unyielding as stone to the wind, as though determined to subjugate him once more to riders doomed to fall and die should luck abandon them one sorrowful day.

Or so it had seemed, for there had been a man, different from the others. His cloth was poor and tattered, his appearance speaking a life of hardship. He looked most unlike the men of the Riddermark; long and fair of hair they were, but his was short and dark, and his eyes were not hard and full of soil and sun. He came bearing a saddle intended for another, but the sight of the riderless horse intrigued him.

He set the travel-worn gear aside and approached without fear or caution, speaking softly in a tongue the horse found strange but benevolent. It came to fill his ears and mind, growing neither stronger nor fainter, easing the terror in his spirit. The man took one rope bound to his halter, and murmured always as he tenderly drew the horse's head to his. It was an unexplained feeling that came of his touch, the warm palm that pressed against the stallion's arching throat, and the hum of kindly words in his ear. Fear flowed from him, and he lost all desire to resist. Without pause, the rope was loosed and removed.

The man looked thoughtfully at the calmed animal, and praised him, running gentle hands across the handsome head. He and horse regarded one another, both sensing the soul of the other.

"His name is Brego."

The man turned in response to the woman's voice, his fingers tracing the broad white star imprinted upon the stallion's noble brow. She lowered her eyes upon adding, "He was my cousin's horse."

"Brego," he said, testing the name upon his tongue. It was a fine title, and so he appraised in the Elven tongue: "Your name is kingly."

The flaxen-haired lady of Rohan advanced in an air of quiet amazement. She looked upon both murmuring man and attentive animal, listening for but a moment more before confessing, "I've heard of the magic of Elves, but...did not look for it in a Ranger from the North."

As his dark eyes lifted to hers, she persisted, "You speak as one of their own."

His answer came thoughtfully, as if born from memory. His eyes lighted upon Brego as he said, "I was raised in Rivendell, for a time." He only turned to her to softly insist, "Turn this fellow free. He has seen enough of war."

The man looked back at Brego as he took his leave.

...

_The horse knew what this meant for him; that his days of freedom were over, and once more he would return into the keeping and command of men. War would surely embrace him, as would its chaos, and blood. The man he bore now may only fall again to perish._

_But a debt was owed, and a debt had been paid. His fate had been bound to the rider beyond the Riddermark from the moment one looked to the other. His liberty was fraught with pleasure and danger both, and as suddenly as it had come, so swiftly had it passed from him._

_In his roaming, he had been drawn to the disturbance of conflict. There had thrived all he had come to dread. Death reeked in the air, and the dead lay strewn across the earth, left to rot and decay. Such the sight had distressed him, and he fled with the river, following its currents deeper into the hills and the meadows golden green._

_It seemed freedom was but a frivolity that hastened to end, for he knew he could not leave the man to wither upon the riverbank._

_So once more, he whose loyalty was no longer called to men took a rider and bore him on his back. To war and death they would return, but it was bearable, perhaps; for they would return to such a world together, as equals._

_..._

Through frigid night and the blessed day following he rode, and Brego was swift under him. Movement kindled life in him once more. His aches began to fall away; the agony of his wounds became tolerable; his eyelids lost their weight and his bones ceased in protest. His fatigue had ended its spell on him at last.

He would return to the company that had parted from him, but the fields of the Riddermark were broad. Several times he lost his way, for the trail of men, women and horse was rushed and faint so far from his eyes, but he feared to dismount, in case his returning strength betrayed him and he could not return to Brego's shoulders.

One such misplacement of himself wound him to an overlook of a valley below, where a sight of horror greeted him. Soldiers were marching in a thick black river of death, barbed and armed with cruel, crude weaponry, bearing the white hand of the new enemy; soldiers that marched upon his own destination.

He counted ten thousand, from what he could and could not see.

Then, his urgency restored in full and driving force, he turned and had Brego run, and run Brego did with boundless speed. The horse carried him faithfully. Once more they found their way, and when they did, neither lost it again. It lay unspoken between them, like a revelation independent to them both, but they understood well what they'd witnessed, and the unthinkable tragedy that would come if the army came to the destination before them.

Vigour surged fiercely in the limbs of both, and no field of Rohan could impair them. Brego crossed the land as if it bowed to him, a prince to his people returning from exile; so fitting it seemed that astride him was an heir whose inheritance was due. Then the great plains swelled to a rise, of which he mounted and stood at its pinnacle, with the unbroken wind and Sun behind him, and the vastness of the mountains before him—and in its shadow, the stronghold soon to fall under mortal siege.

To war had returned Aragorn, son of Arathorn.

"Well done, Brego," he breathed, and patted the stallion's neck. "My friend."

Brego knew not the Elven tongue, but the blessing spoken could not be mistaken. As equals, and more, horse and rider made their way into the keep.

...


End file.
